Chapter 3
Chapter 3
It had been a long time since a formal dinner had been held at Coldwell.
Usually, old Sir Henry had his meals at a small table in the Yellow Parlour or on a tray in his bedroom, but that night, the dining room had been opened up; aired, dusted, and polished to within an inch of its life. When Kate brought up the floral centrepiece for the table, created from the sparse materials available in the gardens (more lilac—the poor plundered tree—filled out with plenty of trailing ivy) she was satisfied with what she saw.
With the blinds lowered against the deepening evening, the bald patches on the dark green flocked wallpaper were less obvious, and the room was alive with candlelight. It glinted off the gold rims of the Spode dinner service and Indian silverware, brought back from the subcontinent by generations of Hydes who had followed the family tradition of serving in the East India Company. The house, like some ancient dowager duchess, had been woken up and decked in the finest trappings of Empire, the best family jewels, ready to receive her guests.
It was a different story downstairs. As the family and guests assembled in the drawing room, Mrs Gatley, her face glistening like a boiled ham, shouted a mixture of instructions, invectives, and prayers through the swirling steam while Susan scuttled between stove and scullery. A trio of girls, fetched from the nearest village of Howden Bridge for pot-washing duties, huddled in the passage, whispering behind their hands and gaping at the footmen. Walter Cox strutted up and down in the formal livery he had brought with him from the London house, which was newer and smarter than the ancient ones from the Coldwell wardrobe, its brass buttons untarnished, its scarlet cuffs unfrayed. Beside him, Thomas and the new footman looked like they’d stepped out of the sepia servant photographs on the wall of the kitchen passage: the ghosts of the men who had first worn the faded, braided tailcoats and white knee-breeches to climb the same stairs and carry the same silver serving dishes more than a century before.
Kate had seen the new footman looking at those photographs. He’d turned away guiltily when he heard her approach, as if she’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. It occurred to her that he might be looking for someone in particular, someone who had worked here, in which case he would likely be disappointed: the most recent photograph was over ten years old. The tradition of the biannual servants’ hall portrait was just one of the many things at Coldwell that Sir Henry had neglected to maintain.
She couldn’t deny that there was something about Jem Arden that bothered her. Something that didn’t quite add up. He had gone out of his way by some considerable margin to secure the footman’s position (which in itself was unusual) and yet he didn’t seem pleased to be here. She had watched him at teatime, noticing that he seemed ill at ease and ate hardly anything. She wondered what had compelled him to leave his employment in the bustling Station Hotel and cross the moors to this place.
Servants’ halls were full of secrets. Character references were full of lies.
Maybe she was reading too much into it. Maybe Jem Arden was simply regretting his decision; he’d probably expected Coldwell Hall to be a much grander and more comfortably appointed situation. He wouldn’t be the only one to find the place unsatisfactory. He wouldn’t be the first to stay only a few days before heading off down the drive, back to civilisation.
Just as long as he waited until Miss Addison’s visit was over, she thought grimly. It didn’t matter what had brought Jem Arden to Coldwell, or whether he liked it, so long as he provided the benefit of his handsome face and fine, liveried physique for the next three days, and left the girls alone.
After that, he could join the ranks of faded, forgotten figures who had marched before him through Coldwell’s basements and back stairs, before disappearing, never to be heard of again.
Thomas didn’t lose his temper easily, but Walter Cox was sorely testing his patience.
As if it wasn’t hard enough, three of them serving a five-course dinner in full livery with Mr Goddard watching like a hawk from his place by the sideboard. The last thing they needed was Cox showing off and fooling about, necking wine from bottles the minute he was through the dining room door and tossing grapes in the air to catch in his mouth. Mrs Furniss had caught him in the kitchen passage, swiping an almost full glass of champagne from a tray Thomas was carrying, and given them a tongue-lashing that ended with a threat to dock both their wages.
It was ruddy unfair.
The new lad wasn’t much help, either. Thomas wasn’t sure how dinner was served at the Station Hotel in Sheffield, but he would have thought they’d have to be a bit more on the ball than Jem Arden had been, serving the first course. Maybe he was nervous, but that was no excuse for sloshing consommé over the side of the bowl, so it nearly splashed into Randolph Hyde’s lap. You’d think he’d never set foot in a dining room before.
Maybe it was the heat, which billowed steamily through the downstairs passages and made his shirt stick to his back. Depositing a serving dish containing the ruins of Mrs Gatley’s poached salmon in the scullery, Thomas tore his white gloves off and pushed past Susan at the sink to plunge his hands under a stream of cold water.
‘Just be glad those old wigs weren’t fit for use,’ Susan remarked sympathetically. ‘They’d be the devil to wear in this heat.’
Thomas, drying his hands on the dish towel she held out, gave a grudging grunt of agreement.
It had been years since the white powdered wigs worn as part of the formal livery had last been needed, and when they were taken out from the cupboard in the footmen’s wardrobe they were found to be as yellowed and patchy as the stuffed ferrets in the glass case on the garden corridor.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ Walter Cox said knowingly, swaggering in behind him with a tray of glasses. ‘When Mr Hyde takes over it’s my guess you’ll be getting new wigs, and new livery too. Likes his footmen to look the business, Mr Hyde does.’ He winked at the village girl who was unloading the tray. ‘Come to think of it, he might look to get some new footmen while he’s about it.’
‘You cheeky sod—’
It was the final straw. Without thinking, Thomas flicked the dish towel in Walter’s direction, but Walter dodged aside and darted out into the corridor just as Mrs Furniss appeared in the doorway. She opened her mouth to issue a reprimand, but only managed a gasp as Cox nearly collided with the new footman coming the other way, a laden tray in his outstretched arms.
Time faltered and stalled.
Kate heard Jem Arden spit out a curse and saw the stack of plates teeter. The Spode sauceboat tipped. For a second, she was frozen, helpless… before the world jerked into motion again and she was lunging forwards, somehow managing to catch it as it fell.
Dimly, she was aware of Walter tossing an apology over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs. She would have to deal with him later, and Thomas, who was hovering miserably behind her, his face a picture of contrition. For now, her skirts were splashed with hollandaise, and the new footman was standing in front of her, his face ashen and his lips white.
‘Sorry.’
‘You weren’t to blame.’
He gave a nod of acknowledgement and made to move past her, but she blocked his way.
‘Wait—Are you unwell?’
There was a sheen of sweat on his skin. His jaw was set, and a muscle flickered above it in the hollow of his cheek.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re clearly anything but fine. Do I have to spell out the consequences of drinking on duty to you as well?’
It was the only thing she could think of, though she knew it made no sense; he’d come from a taproom, not a temperance society, like Miss Addison’s maid. Even if he had been stupid enough to be led astray by Walter Cox, they’d only got as far as the entrées. He couldn’t have downed enough stolen wine for it to have such an effect already.
‘I haven’t been drinking.’
His eyes were dark, all pupil and no iris. She could sense the tension coming from him: a taut, pent-up energy that felt a little like anger. She put the sauceboat on his tray and took it from him, nodding in the direction of the butler’s pantry. ‘Go and wash your face and get some water. Hurry up.’
She deposited the tray and went into the scullery to sponge the sauce from her dress. Dismayed by the oily stain it left and wondering how she might shift it (fuller’s earth?) she went to find him in the butler’s pantry.
He was standing by the sink, his back towards her as he drank water from his scooped hands. He turned as she came in, wiping his mouth on the scarlet cuff of his livery coat. A little of the colour had returned to his cheeks, but his eyes still had a dark glitter.
‘I’ll get back to work.’
He picked up his gloves and crossed the room, but she closed the door before he reached it.
‘Not until I say so, Mr Arden. Do you have a fever?’
‘No.’ His eyes were fixed on a point above her left shoulder. His expression was one of exaggerated resignation. ‘I told you, I’m not unwell.’
She gave a tut of impatience. ‘I can’t risk illness amongst my staff, Mr Arden. Not ever, but particularly not now.’
Reaching up, she touched the backs of her fingers to his cheek. He flinched, as if he too had felt the jolt that passed down her arm. His skin was as cool and smooth as marble. She pulled away sharply.
His eyes met hers, faintly challenging. ‘Can I go now?’
She opened the door and stood back to let him pass, not remotely reassured.
It was dark when Jem slipped out of the door and into the yard. The village girls were gone and the last of the endless crystal glasses had been dried and returned to its correct place in the butler’s pantry. The cook had fin ished, and the lamps were turned out, so the large kitchen window held only the dim glow from the passageway, not strong enough to push away the endless country blackness.
Sitting on the edge of a stone trough by the wall, he let out a long, slow breath. He felt dazed, his head full of jolting, disjointed impressions from the day. They replayed themselves behind his eyes, like a magic lantern turned by a clumsy hand.
Tipping back his head, he looked up at the sky and discovered that the darkness was spangled with stars, sprinkled like sugar across the heavens. At least they felt familiar, though it had been a while since he had seen them in such abundance. Their silent shimmer anchored him, reminding him of home.
Of Jack.
When he’d seen the advertisement, it had felt like stumbling across the key to a locked door. The cogs of the universe, turning slowly all this time, seemed to jolt forward, gears in the earth’s invisible mechanism slotting into place and telling him that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for.
He just wasn’t sure what to do with it.
He had set out this morning with only a broken trail of clues to follow; the stale crumbs of rumour and the gnawing need to know the truth that had tormented him for the last nine years. Hatred churned sourly in his gut and acid burned in his throat, an echo of the nausea that had almost overwhelmed him earlier. Going into the dining room, his reaction to the physical presence of Hyde had been visceral. It had taken all Jem’s willpower not to grab him by his thick throat, throw him against the wall, and ask him for the truth outright. After all these years of not knowing, it was dazzlingly tempting.
But he knew better than to let emotion cloud his judgement. If he was going to find out what had happened to his brother, he had to tread carefully this time. Cleverly. If he ruined this chance, he knew he wouldn’t get another.
From somewhere on the far side of the yard he heard the creak and bang of the privy door and a light appeared, swaying as it came closer. Jem stilled, waiting for whoever carried it to pass him and go inside, but at the door it stopped, then swung around in a wide arc. A voice came from behind it.
‘Jem? We wondered where you’d got to. Thought you’d had enough and done a runner.’
Thomas’s voice. He held the lamp aloft so that Jem was drawn into its circle of light.
He forced a dutiful smile. ‘Too bloody tired.’
Thomas’s laugh came from the shadows. ‘Tell me about it. I thought you’d be used to it, coming from a big hotel. We’ve not had to work so hard for years—got used to having it easy.’ The light retreated as he turned back towards the door. ‘Any road, you’d better come in before Mr Goddard locks up. You’ll be stopping out there, otherwise.’
Jem hesitated, lifting his eyes to the stars again. From through the archway across the yard he could just catch the faint, familiar scent of hay and horses and, in that moment, in spite of his bone-deep exhaustion, he would have willingly traded a bed inside the walls of Coldwell Hall for a coat thrown down on the straw in its stables.
He’d slept in far worse places, after all.
Reluctantly he got to his feet. ‘Coming,’ he said.
It wasn’t chance that brought me to Coldwell that day.
I went to find out what happened to my brother, who had disappeared during a shooting party there in 1902, while he was in the employment of Viscount Frensham. I was working abroad when he went missing and didn’t know for a year that he hadn’t returned to Ward Abbey after the visit. No one could give me any answers and it took all that time to discover that Coldwell was the last place he had been seen.
From then on, I made it my business to learn all I could about Randolph Hyde. He had returned to India by then, but was well-known in London. I dug out scraps of gossip about his drinking, gambling, and discovered which gentlemen’s clubs he belonged to, which brothels he favoured. Everything I found out confirmed my suspicion that he had something to do with Jack’s disappearance. I just didn’t know what.
I had never set eyes on him, but I hated him.
On the day I came to Coldwell, hatred had been my companion for a long time. Like the bombardment, I didn’t notice that it was getting bigger and louder and filling all the spaces between. With the guns, the noise becomes everything. You can’t think beyond it. You can’t remember what quiet was like. Even when it stops you still hear it, because by then it’s too late. It’s inside your head and nothing will ever be peaceful again.
Does that sound like I’m making excuses for what I did?
Maybe I am.